They didn’t read Pitchfork or Stereogum or Gorilla vs. Bear or Hipster Runoff, only glanced at them, not enough blaise in reading, but skimming kept your credibility, thank god those sites now posted more and more videos. They didn’t subscribe to VICE

Years from now, Rory would remember the first sight of his grandmother—veins lashed to spindly brown legs, stern lips, grey plait as long as a girl's. A stillness that deleted you. The look in her eyes. She'd heard what he could do.

You're fetching coffee in the kitchen and your mother is patrolling the area with her brutalizing eye. She hands you the cream. Her big pooch can't help himself and besides. You have no idea how long it's been since a man's come in there.

Midway through the fall semester, an unremarkable girl in Professor Woody's Advanced Fiction workshop dyed her hair an unnatural shade of dark, changed her name to Tasmina, and turned in a story filled with made-up words.

And it seemed that, just a little more—and the solution would be found, and then a new, beautiful life would begin; and it was clear to both of them that the end was still far off, and that the most complicated and difficult part was just beginning.

When a hole opened in the courtyard, the kids threw pennies down and called it the wishing well.
We said, "Someone must have dug it."
When the hole opened wider, we said, "Someone must still be digging."